Two days after the wedding that I wrote about yesterday, we moved to Scotland. I have mentioned before that Dad was only 19 when I was born. Which is quite young to be starting a family and especially tricky if you are a student, which he was.
And then, having finished being a student, he decided that he wanted to be a post-graduate. And not just any kind of post-graduate, but a PhD kind of post-graduate. Which is how we came to be living in Dundee for a couple of years in the mid-1970s, where Dad was working at the University and doing the research which led to his doctorate being awarded in 1974.
In truth, the only thing that I can remember about the move is the fact that it was the first time I flew anywhere. I am pretty sure that the budget only ran to Mum, Karen and I flying up and that Dad went by some other method. And we always travelled by train thereafter, so I am sure that either it wasn’t a cheap option, or that taking an almost-six year old and a three year old on a plane was no less traumatic than taking them on a train (or both). And as an experience it was pretty much wasted on me, because all I can remember is being sat on the tarmac at Heathrow, watching the other planes.
Our first home in Dundee was an apartment which my parents rented in the centre of the town. I have a vague memory that we had trouble finding the correct building as it was dark when we got there, but I am notoriously bad at finding places in the dark (I’ve had at least three homes which I would routinely drive straight past if it was dark) so that might just have been my problem rather than everyone’s.
Fortunately, I have many happy memories of our time in Dundee – even though we left there 35 years ago and I have never been back.